Summer Theater
by No Longer a Phan
Summary: A writer in a summer theater program is snooping about when she finds herself a story to write... Or has the ending already been writen? Can she change the ending in time? Sort of funny, but more noteably SNARKY
1. Something HAPPEN

Disclaimer: Not mine, shame shame. Technically I own the quatrains I made up, but Andrew Lloyd Webber can have them. They suck. Sorry- I actually do occasionally write songs, but you know. I was just having some fun. Come ON.

…

The darkness of the theater wasn't infinite- but it was dark. Only one out of every 2 lights worked well, and most of those were kept off. Thus, during the night, it was very, very dark.

But not impossibly dark. Dark enough for light to be rare, but light enough for shadows, creating a slightly darker darkness. A darkness where the wind from outside could be heard even in the lower levels. Or, at least, are assumed to be heard. What was truly down there, only the darkness knew.

The theater was not a Broadway theater, or an off Broadway one, although it was in America. New York, more specifically. Brooklyn, New York, if you want to be precise. In one of the slightly less inhabited areas, but not a total suburban one. Thus, not only was it dark in the theater at night, but it was also quiet.

Which why I was surprised to hear something.

The theater was a summer theater, little public place, for kids to do some cheesy performance of Annie and such for their parents, and the actual good stuff was only senselessly promised and denied. I, of course, would know this, being a writer of the actual good stuff. I actually had several ideas and even a bit of the score written (thanks to my father, the composer/ arranger, for helping me), but every time I brought a script to them, they denied it. They probably never read it anyway. If they had, I might even have something on Broadway.

Aside from being a writer, I'm also a bit of a snoop, or a nosey writer if nothing else. Since I was allowed in during the day for the writing classes (a complete bore, I assure you), I was able to get in during the evening, and if I was good during the week (and the only reason I ever was, on the occasions), during the night. So I would snoop around the building and hope for an idea, or something to sit on. Or a bar of chocolate someone forgot.

Anyway, when I heard the sound (a voice, more specifically), I immediately brandished by pencil and whipped out my notebook. However, I soon realized that they weren't looking for me. I could just tell.

They _were_ calling someone else.

In an excited frenzy, I looked for a place to squeeze into or hide under, but I found none that appealed to me, and figured that I would have to get closer anyway. I strained my ears to hear again that voice in the darkness. Suspense mounted. _Come ON! Something HAPPEN!_

"_Haeley…"_ the voice called again, musically and soft. Haeley… she was in the chorus! Haeley was supposedly the best, or one of the aforementioned, She was rumored to have a tutor, although her mother knew naught of it, and she denied it, although I see her pale when people mention it in the hall. If this was indeed her tutor, why were they meeting her here, and why did they sound so freaking amazing? Here was a voice that could crack the heart of even the most faithful rap listener, and all of those with no sense of music would quell before it in musical defecate. I, being of slightly older tastes, including quality music like some classical and the Beatles, was so startled that I nearly did supremely stupid. However, I gathered what senses I have in time to stop myself from having enough time to think if something dumb enough to do. "_Haeley… From the shadows I call you, Haeley, let your voice free. Haeley, the daylight is finally through, Haeley, my Aphrodite… Haeley… Haeley…_" My head was spinning. _How cam someone possibly sound that awesome? And the lines! They're wonderful! Writer, singer… _It was too much. I stifled a gasp. I actually accepted defeat- the voice was BETTER THAN I WAS! Only by a bit, yes, but to admit someone could smush my ego is something that is entirely unheard of. (Really. Ask anyone.)

When I managed to shake my head of the voice, I began to take a more practical look at things. Dark theater, awesome voice, great lines… Haeley going pale when a tutor is mentioned that her mom doesn't know about. Increasing in greatness. Awesome voice… Awesome melody… Aphrodite… thats familiar. Hmm… Aphrodite had something to do with Greek stuff… Haeley had mentioned something about it last week. Obviously there is a connection.

"_Haeley… Haeley…"_ the voice called. FREAK they are GOOD. But where was Haeley? A shadow flickered in the walkway above the stage. I crouched and bent my head upward. _Haeley? Where are you? I want the plot to continue! Come ON!_ And as if I had control, a clear, sweet voice resounded.

"A thousand clay figures in the darkness, half formed, light they have not known, the sky outside, moonless and starless, is not my heart's home…" Haeley's hesitant voice sang out. Even though it was hesitant, the darkness added to her clarity. I had heard the choir rehearsing, and naturally she was amazing, but the darkness and silence forced her to make the notes form themselves around her, not let others do it for her. And she did it way better.

Haeley stepped forward on the catwalk above the stage. I could tell she could not see me, for I was wearing a dark sweatshirt, but I put up my hood anyway, just in case. The air stirred, as if something important was about to happen. _Finally. Sure took you long enough._

"_But here in the darkness your safe now, I'll shelter you with care in my arms… in the safety, I'll show you how, in the darkness, where no one harms!_" the voice crescendo-ed, and I felt myself shimmer with the air, as if I myself were but a note that the voice commanded in the night. Another tentative step forward from Haeley. The shadow flickered, and suddenly leapt. Haeley took a large step forward simultaneously, and stepped into the grip of a man who had probably cast-ed the shadow!

"The beginnings of a million stories lay beneath our melody! Let us not pick one, but start one now!" both the voice and Haeley sang in the darkness, filling the silence with something with just as much power.

"_Live not within a life of melancholy_…" the man-voice sand softly, then crescendo-ed again with the next line.

"Let these notes make a vow!" the voice and Haeley sang together. I felt my mind scramble like eggs in an eggbeater. _This is SO cool! Oh snap oh SNAP OH snap._ Haeley and voice man kept singing, and my brains turned into a grilled cheese with hot sauce- everything was oozing out but what was in was ON FIRE. I hardly could prevent myself from fidgeting and squeing, but somehow, my awesomeness prevailed and I remained undetected.

Suddenly the music changed. They had stopped singing, and my grilled cheese brain froze into a very dislikable flavor of ices. I could hear Haeley biting her lip (by the way she was silent and once again for my intuition of situations)

_"I am your angel of music?"_ the voice whispered. Haeley nodded slowly from what I imagined I knew. "_Come to me angel of music…_"

_HOLD ON A SECOND._ I recognized this. A nutzo friend of mine had been listening to something called 'angel of music' a few weeks ago. From some crazy play- "MUSICAL!" she had screamed- called… umm… something with a ghost dude… and a really stupid Italian soprano… and a Mary Sue soprano who's dating the ghost man… I just couldn't remember what it was called.

Ghost. Poltergeist. Spetre (yay! His Dark Materials ROCKS). Fish. Play. Musical. Opera. Phantom-

_THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA IS THERE INSIDE YOUR MIND!_

…

After note: Look, I KNOW it should be Christine, but hey, I le don't care (tee hee FC). And please note: this isn't a self-insersian fic. First of all, I can sing for my life and my life alone. Second of all, my ego isn't that big any more. Third of all, I don't go to any summer theater programs. Last of all, I'm a combination between the narrator and the friend screaming "MUSICAL!" when the writer confused play and musical, which everyone at my school does.

Post script: this is what I think like. I'm not morbid mucho.

Post post scirpt: Do ya think it's funny? Or just stupid? Or some deranged combination of the  
two?

Post post post script: If you think it is stupid... well, then at least say what made it stupid. It will get better I swere- all my stuff starts junky and ends coolish.

You know the drill- review please!


	2. Symphony of Sparks

Disclaimer: Not mine. Well, I tried, but the ghost of Gaston Leroux told me that he was afraid of hairy jellybeans. Ask him, not me. Andrew Lloyd Webber was to busy 'talking' to Christine to discuss things, so…

…  
This realization was met with a sudden explosion of music. My mind, being off of its 'feet' in the first place totally lost it's footing again without having stood up. My head felt like a top, spinning and spinning. I managed to regain myself in time though.

I heard a slight shuffling across the catwalks. Voice man was probably leading Haeley somewhere. _Nice try. _I listened keenly and began following them. _This is mine to write now. MWHAHAHA!_

I followed them through the dark theater, listening to them sing. I ignored their indescribable voices for the time being, just so I could be on my toes, so to speak.

After a bit, they descended from the catwalks. I withdrew behind a chair, but they didn't see me. Instead, they headed into a secret passage way. I followed silently.

The passage at first was just a passage, but then opened up into a better-lit area, which looked suspiciously like a sewer, but totally redesigned. The water was Florida commercial pool blue, with eerie but cool lights shining upward. The walls were made of a pale grayish stone, with strange Celtic designs weaving their way across in a disettling but strangely beautiful way. Fortunately for me, although they were on a boat, there were little sidewalks I could follow them on. I shrank into the shadows, being careful not to be seen, but at the same time, taking in every minute detail.

Haeley was wearing a white blouse that seemed to flow off into a skirt that decided it was not one- I never knew what they were called- and blue jeans, along with some black, Velcro sneakers. She sat with her knees pulled up not quite to her chest and her hands helping her sit up farther back in the boat. Her frazzled brown hair fell to about mid-way down her back. I could tell by the back of her head that she was staring at voice man, and my writers knowledge of the world told me that she was transfixed with awe as she and voice dude sang.

Voice dude on the other hand was a different story. He was standing up in the boat (the first hint of coolness- how many people can stand up in a boat without tipping it?) and rowing. Apart from that he wore a black cloak (the next hint of awesomeness, and perhaps the most powerful one), and some kind of shirt with black (I could only see the sleeves occasionally as he rowed), and black pants (because anyone with a black shirt and cloak wore black pants- duh!). On top of that he had a black hat, and either dark brown or black hair. His eyes- black. His shoes- most likely black. His socks- pink. Just kidding. They were probably black.

But what really set him apart was his face. Or rather, what hid it. He wore a black mask that covered the left hand side of his face, which was his right. The black mask's texture was like that of fire, and it seemed to be shooting up, or rather curling around, his face, and the dancing shadows around it made the effect more real. I couldn't blame Haeley for being entranced by this man- I felt oddly drawn to him as well. I couldn't help but wonder- who is this guy?

After a few more twists and turns of the water-labyrinth, and several nearly-being-discovered calls, the water ended and some more passage began. By now, they were two or three minutes into their song-, which I hadn't been listening in order to keep my sanity -for the time being –, so I was getting a little impatient. Naturally, the only thing in my mind was WRITE, so I needed the plot to continue- you can't write a book with no story- that would be... an unstory. Still, they kept on with their singing as the dark passage led to some spiraling stairs, which I carefully followed them down. Then there was a small bridge, only a few meters long, leading into voice man's lair. I kept a safe distance- some ways up the spiral staircase- from where I watched them. It had been about five minutes now- far too long to be singing in my opinion- and for the second time, silence filled the air. I had never realized how irritating silence could be. Voice guy and Haeley had gotten out of the boat. Haeley followed the voice man as he walked over to a piano-like thing, a cross between an organ and a harpsichord.

The sound was something different than either. It sounded like the twinkling of stars-, which might be a harpsichord, but I still don't know what they sound like.

But the music- oh the music! He started singing softly, but I did not hear the words. Music flowed over and around me, encasing my body and mind. It not sweet, but bittersweet- bittersweet and heavenly. It was as if the piano thing was the stars that filled the night sky- his voice.

_Hey- stop being silly_, I snapped at myself,_ you'll screw up the details_.

Haeley stared at sir voice in awe. I still couldn't fathom the words, but I could hear the music much more clearly. It wasn't very soft anymore- it had swelled to fit sir voice's lair quite well. And it no longer was bittersweet- it was becoming almost angry. I felt myself tense, as if preparing to take a physical blow. As the music lead up to this 'blow' I anticipated, I realized I could not be prepared for it- you cannot close your ears like eyes. I felt the music surge through my limbs, beautiful but horrible, angry and lonely and mad, and at the same time maddening. No longer was the harpsi-organ playing, but a symphony of sparks, dancing in the dark.

And his voice was the fire. The words were beyond me; the music seemed to consume my soul. It was like a raging sea- it roared up then retreated half way, only to attack the shore with even greater force. And now I was swept up in the chaos. The fire was retreating now, and I was being pulled into darkness, the twisted clay figures Haeley sang of began forming and grinning, surrounding me with a kaleidoscope of not fire, not water nor wind nor earth, but..._ darkness_…

Suddenly the spell was broken when the voice darted over to where Haeley was in the process of falling after fainting. Reality came back suddenly, coldly and with a harsh smack that hurt more than the dream of music.

I felt tears idly picking their way down my checks. I brushed them away impatiently. Haeley had been right next to the organ- I couldn't imagine what it was like for her. Even from up on the spiral staircase, I felt so caught up in it, so drawn to it-

How much drawn exactly? I snapped into reality a second time and took a look around me. I was no longer on the spiral staircase, but right by the bridge before the lair. One of my feet was still raised in a half completed step. Gravity bit into my foot and dragged it to the ground far to fast, and my footstep echoed through the lair.

The silent black eyes of the voice darted to me.

…

Hee hee! Book references! Review, chapter names, chocolate, anything really.


	3. I am a Writer

Disclaimer: not mine. Sigh.

…

I knew it was folly to run- I could join a snail race, going at top speed and come in tenth place when there were seven snails and me. Still, my body leapt and began running as I saw sir voice come down upon me. I had gotten surprisingly far- a total of two feet- before he caught up with me. His hand grabbed my neck and the momentum of the rest of him pushed me into the wall.

"Why are you here?" he hissed, "_Speak if you value your life!_" My hands began clawing at his, trying to get some breathing room. I tried to scratch his hands, but such endeavors proved fruitless. I tried to do what he asked, but was only able to make some _gak!_ And _mnrnf!_ Like noises. Finally I managed to rasp;

"Please monsieur! I cannot speak!" Hold on. Did I just call this dude _monsieur?_ Sure I took French in school, but this was Summer Theater!

At, say, eleven o'clock, in cellars that technically didn't exist while being choked.

"_Answers first!_" He snarled.

"I can't—gasp – speaa.." I tried to finish 'speak,' but I couldn't get my mouth to work properly (a shocker). My jaw hung slack even as I tried so feverishly to move it.

"_Does life mean nothing_?" he taunted me with amusement, but I didn't really hear him at the time. I felt my consciousness quell.

I now know the reason that 'air' is called what it is. When you're being choked and begin to sag, your lungs release stored air, and the sound they make is '_air_.' I know this from experience, as I was exhibiting this myself. Sir voice's hand felt like a sterilized knife in butter as it cut through my neck, ensnaring my poor vocal chords. My mind was hot and moist, swimming in a pool of diluted mud. My vision was parallel to this image- everything was becoming murky. Heat crept up and around my neck, back, chest, eyes, everywhere. As my eyes closed I began to see light.

Oxygen burst into my lungs and the claw of heat dispersed. My lungs seemed so depleted that both my left and my right lung wanted to get to the air before the other, and seeing I only had one throat, I coughed and sputtered. I leaned against the wall gasping.

"Now _why are you here?_" Sir voice demanded coldly. His voice was definite and left no room for argument. I opened my eyes, and adopted a slightly indignant posture.

"I," I said, "am a writer. I was snooping around a little later than I normally do, when I heard you and Haeley start singing. I was curious and followed you down." Sir voice was silent; he was studying me. He no longer seemed angry, just skeptical. _Whatever._

"You know," I added, "you and Haeley had a sublime duet- lustrous and seraphic, yet mysterious. And your solo right there- completely stupefying. Extremely intricate, yet infernal- I would go so far as to say stygian." I didn't say this to butter him up, but simply to give my input. There was a glint in his eye. Then he nodded slowly.

"A writer, so you say?" the voice said at last

"Yea, I'm not too bad." Did I hear myself correctly? _Not too BAD?_ That was unheard of- my ego! My skills! MY PRIDE FOR GOODNESS SAKE! _Oh shut up_, part of me thought. I stopped arguing as the voice gave a nod.

"A writer you say?" I nodded. The voice assumed a controlling air. "Then bring something you've written, tomorrow- about the same time as now. You may come down here if you wish, but you are not to make yourself visible or audible. And Haeley is not to know."

"Alright," I said quietly. Frankly I would be stunned, except I had gone numb when he started studying me.

"You may go." I turned to leave.

"Wait, um, before I go…" I began awkwardly, "do you have a name, or a title or something? I mean I'm Warden if you care…"

"I am Dwnn," he said simply. I nodded and left- I was tired, confused and totally hyper. I needed some rest.

And my mom is expecting me

…

Dun dun DUN!


	4. Why So Late?

Disclaimer: not mine. Yet.

Dedicated to: Avra, personal friend of mine, for it is her computer whom is described below (reader?) :D just keep reading

…

"Hi mom I'm home!" I called into the apartment as I let myself in. My older sister and one of her friends were watching TV on the couch, which wasn't to far from the door.

"Your FACE!" my sister said.

"Why so late?" my mom called sternly from the kitchen.

"Oh heh heh…" I began. I was SO not telling Mom about the whole bizzarities that actually happened- Dwnn had said Haeley was not to know, but I knew that he also meant in general no one was to know. That was simply common knowledge. "I was just helping clean up some stuff on one of the stages, you know- some dude asked me to... He might be the janitor or something." This was simply a stretch of the truth- I did clean off a part of the stage to sit on for a while. Dwnn had asked me to bring him a piece of writing, so I was simply being vague. He could be the janitor, I mused, but somehow I doubted it- he seemed to young to be. And yet he didn't seem a child- he seemed… ageless.

"I see. Well, its 9:30, which means you should be home earlier," my mom said in a scathing voice. I knew if I said ok I would be doomed because I had already agreed to give Dwnn my stuff, and I knew crossing him could be fatal.

"Look, I always get home ok, so I don't see why I can't stay out a _little _later. Plus, the dude seemed to enjoy the company," I insisted, still telling the truth. Or at least stretching it only a bit. My mom is a bit zen-ey, so she took this quite well, or better than I imagine most moms would.

"OH REally?" she said, "It's not your decision to MAKE, now IS IT?" I bit my lip- my writers mind told me that there would be an exclamation point there as well as a question mark.

"Well… no…" I mumbled, "but-"

"You KNOW the rules in this house," my mom snapped.

"Yea, I know," I grouched, "No ands ifs or buts. Anyhow, LIKE I WAS SAYING…. I'm not asking to be out till ten o'clock."

"The answer is no."

"Look, I know I was late to night, b-" I stopped myself. "however, today I sort of got lost because… my backpack spilled open and I had to chase my papers back into them." this to was true- two papers fell out of my pocket (see? papers)

"You don't have a backpack with you," my mom said in definitive tone.

"Okay, my pocket, whatever," I sighed, "you _know_ what I mean. Please- you know how much I like to be out at night, and I promise I won't come home this late often- generally I'll come home… say…five or ten minutes precedent?" my mom sighed- she couldn't argue with vocabulary. It was just another way of reminding her that I was academically PERFECT. Ok, academically advanced if you don't like my crazy big ego.

"Oookay, you win," she said, "but if you come home any later, you're grounded, and if you a. get drunk or b. get high, you're also grounded."

"Alright, fair enough," I said. I sped into my room in order to avoid having to explain myself further.

And besides, I had to choose some writing for Dwnn.

My room is a closet I turned into a room- a roomy closet, to be more specific. There was couch-like bed on top of a shelf (a "loft" according to my mom), beneath which I put a beanbag chair, a rug and a small, wooden, grid-like shelving unit for my growing collection of nick-knacks. There was a 'miniature dresser' (aka shelves for cramped spaces, aka for college dorms and teens because they're so messy, even though I fit into neither category) for my clothes (which, fortunately for me, there wasn't a lot of because I hate shopping (asterisk)) and a hamper for my dirty clothes (my mom gave up on my being neat quite a while ago). I clambered up some unused piping on the wall- my latter- into my 'loft.'

A long time ago, all the members of the household used one, broken down PC. This meant that because I was the youngest, I had to hand write everything, which meant that I was embarrassed time after time by my handwriting.

Then my mom got a new PC for the household, and only a few days later, the school she taught at got rid of their old laptops, so my mom was given one. She was going to try to find something 'useful' to do with it, but I asked her if I could have it because PCs are junk, even the good ones. Plus, it was an old, colorful ibook, so it was cool. My mom shrugged and said "sure," so I obtained a previously used laptop. I upgraded the system to OX 10, but it still is as slow as I am, and in addition to that dysfunctional. When I'm checking my email, if I keep my cursor on the links to long they become dead links, so in order not to get stuck on one page, I half to sneak up on them. It's almost like a game, and I'm not too bad at it.

When I got into my loft, I grabbed my computer and plopped it down on my lap and opened it up. I had to search through all of my stuff to find something good to give to Dwnn.

I knew it would have to be completely free of my writers' voice, despite how cool it is. That eliminated all but 7 quality choices: three poems, a cool, several page story consisting mainly of fight scenes I so carefully choreographed- with some help from a friend on a fencing team-, a less than one page piece of junk about some dude walking toward the gallows to be hung in whatever time it was England, and two other random pieces.

I immediately threw out one bad poem. The other two were two were some very quirky poems I had written; one about a clock and how it's better than civilization, and one about a rabbit being chased by a fox. I liked the fox chasing the rabbit- imagery central there- but decided that it was a bit too mundane a subject, and it didn't spark thought like the clock piece did. I printed out the clock poem, and decided I needed one long piece. Reading through the two random pieces, I scowled at there over sci-fi-ness, quickly eliminating them. Part of me was tempted to print out the gallows piece, but I told that part to shut up and that my fighting masterpiece was better. All it needed was some editing.

After I had gotten through the third fight scene, I realized that my masterpiece wasn't any good- it was just a bunch of blood and gore, completely lackluster. I frowned- I never would have agreed with myself just a day before, and here I was, gashing one of my favorite stories. Maybe I had changed suddenly, or maybe I was afraid it wasn't good enough.

I very aggressively stopped caring.

I took a look at the gallows piece- I had written it a while ago because I was bored with pouting over some things that happened earlier. Reading it for the first time, I admitted it was much better than I had given it credit for. I had been quantity over quality, and there was much more mass to the swordfight piece. I printed out the finished clock piece and the gallows piece. Scanning both for any minor errors, I realized how amazingly stunning the gallows piece was. And yet it was perturbing, hellish and violently ablaze. It pulled you into Dante's Inferno, into the seventh ring of hell. Not to different from Dwnn's piece, I mused. Both were vehement, and both were horrid and beautiful.

It had to be worth a shot.


	5. Word match

Disclaimer: Not mine.

…

For once I didn't stay up late and for once I didn't complain in the morning. For once I went to Summer Theater silently and for once I didn't give the 'teacher' any sass.

Yet.

The 'teacher,' Mr. Keemmead (steam head, I call him), was droning on about how to put emotion into a piece of writing. Over the past few summers, I have never been on best terms with any of the 'teachers' (except for Mr. Demi, and that was a very special case), but I never loathed any of the previous ones like I loathed Mr. Keemmead. He had a droll sense of humor that wasn't even funny, and he gels his dyed-black hair (which used to be the color of old school rulers, the kind that are so old they're becoming soft) up to be 'cool,' even though I think he looks like a delirious imbecile. Mr. Keemmead adorns normal black teacher pants and some kind of light, cottony teacher shirt, but tries to be snazzy without actually taking a risk (take Mr. Demi, for example- he actually wore a hot pink shirt the first day with a purple suit. I made a comment, and he said that he was taking the responsibility of showing that not only girly-girls wear pink. He also said that purple is god. I respect him for that). I slouched back in my seat- the cheep wooden ones elementary schools always have with the yellow brown finish- and leaned back so only the back two legs touched the floor, all the time keeping myself from falling with my index finger hooked on a small downward jut of the desk. I resisted gritting my teeth at Mr. Keemmead's monotonous voice, as I know I would have to grit them for quite a while.

"In order to add more emotion to your piece," Mr. Keemmead droned, "you have to add interesting words- be careful about your word choice."

"How about yours?" I grumbled. I tried to keep my voice low, but I could not, as I hadn't just thought of that 'snide remark' (as he would call it, says my writer's intuition), it was an explosion of my thoughts for the past… say… month?

"Excuse me, Warden," Mr. Keemmead chirped through his nose, "would you like to explain your snide remark (see?)"

"Yes, I would," I said, straightening up in my seat. _Warden, please stop, we don't need a phone call home-_ "I muse that adding some pizzazz to the 'lesson' so to speak and therefore our handiwork would require a more eclectic dialect." Pinching the edges of my lips down here served two purposes- to give me a thin lipped, matter-of-fact, professional air and to keep from smirking. Mr. Keemmead adopted a similar expression to keep from frowning. I adored seeing him being angry at me for being such a smart smartass.

"Oh really? How so?" Mr. Keemmead said, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to look challenging. _So he wishes to challenge the wordmeister?_ My lips pinched tighter as I resisted smirking even more- I already had rewritten his sentence, even before he excused me.

"Rather than saying 'in order to add more emotion to your piece,' etc, you might want to say something like, 'to fine tune the atmosphere of your work, your selection of words must reflect upon it's mood.'" I said as if lecturing a child. Rewriting his sentence again, I added, "Or, 'to create an aura that characterizes and fits your piece, your words must be parallel to it's disposition,' or countless others." I reframed from saying, 'get a thesaurus.' Mr. Keemmead nodded in the way that someone nods when they're about to point out a loophole, which I had purposely created.

"Is 'fits' the best word for the situation?" Mr. Keemmead said in the same tone, except it went through his nose (he speaks like that sometimes). A smirk tested the end of my lips, but I didn't give in- it had become a contest between the two of us, a battle of wits, and I was going to win every aspect of it.

"'Suits' would establish a more apprehensible statement, but the fundamental manifestations of this classroom would not be able to cognize the quintessence of my acclamation," I replied calmly. Mr. Keemmead grew very red, as I was fairly sure he didn't know the meaning of quintessence. His lips were twitching as years of teaching and staid composure came crashing down around him.

"Excuse me, but this is my classroom," he said, hardly keeping his voice in check, "would you like to teach the class?" _YES! _I wanted to shout, but I had a better idea.

"No, for speculation has lead me to the conjecture that my students would have an inadequate terminology to discern any counsel from my disquisition," I replied calmly. A smile burned at my lips though I dared not let it out, as I was trying to look earnest enough for Mr. Keemmead to, in theory, buy. Everyone who fully understood what I was saying- say, 7 other people in the room- broke down laughing. What I had basically said was no because your to stupid to learn, steam head. Everyone else said 'oooh what now?' and the steam head looked like a melting tomato. His head was so hot, in fact, that some steam rose off of his forehead (see? Steam head!). Steam head tried to say something like, 'well I see what you mean, (insert name of talking person here in capitals)!' to turn it around, but he was so furious at a. being dissed by ME of all the people there and b. (as my mischievous writers intuition insisted) he knew almost none of the words I had said. Finally he summoned himself to speak. He drew himself up to full height, and gave me that 'your going to the head of the program' look. I tightened my lips to resist biting them. He began to utter the words of doom-

_RRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING! _The lunch bell saved me. As I picked up my backpack and notebook and bolted out the door, I noted that for once, not the last person out.


	6. Da Wordsmith

Disclaimer: this chapter could pass as mine. No POTO references. But the rest of the story isn't mine.

…

Ok, maybe it didn't happen _exactly _like that. What can I do? I'm an ELA- Egotistical, Loafing, Arrogant person. But the point is, I'm a wordsmith- I play with words. Anagrams. Acronyms. Rhymes. Poetic devises. You get the picture. I thumb my nose at people by outwording them, as I outworded steam head.

But not colloquially.

In other words, I'm sorta unpopular. Pretty unpopular. Really unpopular. Very unpopular. Very, very, unpopular.

Ok, fine. The most unpopular person in Summer Theater.

But not the most hated- that would be Sean Yonm., a jerkhead basketball brute. He's a perverted guy, who constantly bothers people, invades their personal space, and is just plain _wrong_. Anyway, he's the most hated but he sits with some people who are higher on the 'cool' scale but hate him anyway, but still treat him like a friend.

I know, I don't get it either. Guys will be guys.

Anyway, my heart thumped wildly but excitedly in my chest. _I outworded steam head! I outworded the creative writing quote on quote teacher off quote! _(yes, I think out the 'on quote' and such). Sure, I had nearly got sent to the head of the program, granted, but I made it out just in time. _That_ I shall not forget.

Now I get my party pooped on. Lunchtime.

Take my word for it, I love food, but I prefer good food. This implies I shun bad food, in other words school food.

In other words, camp food.

My mom doesn't pack me lunch for Summer Theater (because it would go bad in five minutes because they don't have an air conditioner), so I have to get camp food. Summer Theater undoubtedly serves the worst camp food in the nation. Still, I'm no one to pass up food.

Today, as every other day, almost, they were serving the old favorite, peanut butter and jelly. Oh boy. On top of that, they give you a rotten apple, week old yogurt and a cookie that's beginning to mold.

I scuffed down my peanut butter and such sandwich, threw out the apple and the yogurt, managed to barter some spare change and a tissue for chips and cherished my slightly moldy cookie. People talked about who knows or cares what around me as I leaned back and smiled to myself at my own table. I was content.

_Then _I saw Sean.

Then my problems began.

"Hey Warden," Sean sneered, emphasizing the syllables of my name.

"Shove off retard," I spat, "I don't want to catch your disease."

"You'd like it," he said sleazily.

"EW YOU PERVERT!" I screeched, "THAT is NASTY!"

"Not like I'd give it to you," he continued.

"I should HOPE so!" my cool party had been crashed- now I really was pissed at this guy.

"Anyway, I just came over here to-"

"I could care LESS about what you came over here to do, just get the FUDGE out of my FACE!" Fudge… _right_….

Sean put on his fake taken aback look.

"I was going to complement you on outwording Keemmead," he huffed, "but if you don't care…."

"Coming from you? No." Now Sean really was taken aback. _Maybe now he'll get the- FUDGE away from me. Yea. Fudge_. The expression on Sean's face changed, and I reframed from groaning.

"It seems this vocabulary you are known for has… deserted you," he fumbled, coming up with the best words he had.

"Deserted? Is that the best you got?" I asked him with both eyebrows raised. "Listen, Sean, you are an imbecile, the denotation of which is a person with moderate mental challenges. Now, your existence is intruding into my domain of presence, so I would encourage your alacrity that way." I pointed to his table

"Huh?" he asked stupidly.

"It means your retarded and you better get out here now before I punch your face in." Sean snorted.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." Sean tried to raise his eyebrows, but his brain had not the capacity for the maneuver.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I challenged the creative writing teacher to a word match, won and got away with it. Not so much for the final two but the first one- I went out on a limb, willing to get in trouble. I did that then- I'll do that now. Don't mess with da Wordsmith." Sean tried to retort. "Stay where you are and get a bloody make over." Sean scowled and left.

I smiled. No one messes with the wordsmith.


	7. Inside My Mind

Disclaimer; I wish this was mine. Some day it will be MWAHAHA but until then I can only kvetch.

Note: I made up some words that fit and used some french words.

…

Soon enough, I had had enough of sitting in the _degoûter_ lunchroom (couldn't resist a little French), so I decided to _vais faire un promanade_, or for you silly English kinnnigits, _gents, take a walk_. Original I know, but I needed a way to pass the time before I handed my stuff into Dwnn.

As I may have hinted, Summer Theater is intriguingly boreing, surprisingly ordinary and stunningly poorly facilitated.

Still, it had a nice library. More like a slightly amazing library. Mahogany shelves stretched to the ceiling and comfortable chairs littered the floor. The shelves housed a large stock of books and windows shafted in pools of golden sunlight onto the moss-green carpet, makeing the color scheme parralel to that of a forest. People come and go, and often I observe them and write about them. At the time, I was heading in this direction.

When I passed the chorus room.

People were bustling around and on the stands with multiple layers choirs sing on (which I don't know the name of), a mediocre but acceptable group of people were singing "You'll be in my heart," from, I think, Tarzan. They sounded slightly skreeky, but not bad. Parts of them were better than others, and one voice stood out clearly from the others.

It was Haeley's.

I was transfixed. Here she was again, this time not singing with Dwnn but with the Summer Theater chorus, a big change. Her voice stood out but she didn't seem half as good as just yesterday night.

Then again, she looked frazzled. Her hair was sticking out, her eyes were starstruck and her posture reeked of bedazzlement. I reminded myself that she did faint yesterday at Dwnn's and easily could have woken up this morning in her own home.

The class was dismissed. I made up my mind. I was talking to her.

"Hey Haeley!" I called, bouncing over to her with an unusual tint of hyperness. Startled, Haeley looked around to see me.

"Hi Warden," She stammered. She wore a small orange tee shirt and some light faded blue-jeans. Her spacey eyes stared off into the shadows. I reframed from smirking, knowing only I knew what she was looking for.

"I was passing by and I heard you," I said, "it really sounds like you've improved- has Summer Theater really worked that much on you?" I didn't bring up the tutor thought, knowing how uncomfortable she got.

"Well, I guess you could say that," She said after a moment, her tone almost longing.

"I see what you mean," I replied calmly. She shook her head, but I really did know. "Seriously, I do- things come up, things are seen, et cetera. People like Dwnn-" _FUDGE!_ _Watch your paws don't dip them in oil!_ Some shadows flickered overhead, but Haeley had zoned out and didn't hear me nor see the shadows.

"Hmmm? Yes, they do," She said quickly. My heart was a jackhammer in my chest, beating fast and beating loud. I looked at my wrist even though I had no watch.

"Oh look a the time!" I laughed cheesliy, "I really must be going. See ya!" Haeley nodded me off, and I scampered to the library in a frenzy. _Warden you idiot! It's a good thing she's in a daze or you'd be so dead!_ I slammed my feet against the floor, as if trying to outrun the shadows.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…" I mumbled all the way to the library, hoping that Dwnn would hear me. "I really didn't mean to it was an accident. I was rambling when BAM, it just came out of my mouth. I don't think Haeley noticed I'm sorry…" The words died in my mouth and my running slowed and turned into a walk. Glancing up into the shadows and breathing heavily, I entered the library. People milled about brainlessly, and I felt myself relax. _Ok… Maybe I'm not dead_. I sighed- Dwnn decided that it wasn't enough to kill me for. Somehow I knew he was cognizant of my slip up, but had spared me. A snippet of lyrics passed idly through my mind, or rather, inside my mind.

_No! We'll be seen there…_

Plopping down in a chair in the _bibliothéque_ as the French would say, I had hardly calmed down. I wanted to relax, but Dwnn seemed to be staring at me every turn my thought took. Then I flashed back to how he had mystified Haeley with his eyes, and wondered if she felt the same way now, still in the chorus room.

Was Dwnn there too?

My notebook nestled against my chest and my pencil tickling my ear, I knew the answer was yes.

…

After that, things went quickly. Or so it seems now- at the time it felt like time had caught a ride snail rather than a taxi. But even a snail comes round, and soon enough my impatient waiting paid off.

It was night.

I paced eagerly around Summer Theater, holding onto my _cahier_, my _crayon_ in my pocket, practicing my _Français_ mentally, I waited to hear Dwnn's voice call softly to Haeley. I had the gallows piece and the clock piece ready, so it was up to Dwnn to get things started.

_What if he lied_? I thought suddenly, _What if he was just some kid trying to trick you? The chorus guys are really creepy…_ My mind reacted so quickly after this that both sides of my brain smashed together. But not because of what I thought.

"_Haeley_…"

…

Yes I take French. Please review


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